She was standing there in the dim light, a sort of kimono gathered about her, her sandaled feet peeping from its lower folds, the lovely arm that held the curious dressing-gown in place bare to the elbow. She was smiling at the answer that her guardian had already given her; Cartaret thought her even more beautiful than when he had seen her before. The duenna had scuttled forward on her knees and, amid a series of cries, was pressing the hem of the kimono to her lips. The Girl's free hand was raising the petitioner. "I am sorry that you have been disturbed by Chitta," she was saying. Cartaret understood then that he was addressed. Moreover, he became conscious that he was by no means at his best on his knees, with his clothes even more rumpled than usual, his hands black and, probably, his face no better. He scrambled to his feet. "It's been no trouble," he said awkwardly. "I should say that it had been a good deal," said the Girl. "Chitta is so very superstitious. Did you find it?" "No," said Cartaret. "At least I don't think so." The Girl puckered her pretty brow. "I mean," explained Cartaret, coming nearer, but thankful that he had left the lamp on the floor behind him, whence its light would least reveal his soiled hands and face--"I mean that I haven't the least idea what I was looking for." The Girl burst into rippling laughter. "Not the least," pursued the emboldened American. "You see, I left word with Refrogné--that's the concierge--that I was dining with some friends at the Deux Colombes--that's a café--when I went out; and I suppose she--I mean your--your maid, isn't it?--made him understand that she--I mean your maid again--wanted me--you know, I don't generally leave word; but this time I thought that perhaps you--I mean she--or, anyhow, I had an idea----" He knew that he was making a fool of himself, so he was glad when she came serenely to his assistance and gallantly shifted the difficulty to her own shoulders. "It was too bad of Chitta to take you away from your dinner." Chitta had slunk into the shadows, but Cartaret could descry her glaring at him. "That was of no consequence," he said; he had forgotten what the dinner cost him. "But, sir, for a reason of so great an absurdity!" She put one hand on the table and leaned on it. "I must tell you that there is in my country a superstition----" She hesitated. Cartaret, his heart leaping, leaned forward. "What is your country, mademoiselle?" he asked. She did not seem to hear that. She went on: "It is really a superstition so much absurd that I am slow to speak to you of it. They believe, our peasants, that it brings good luck when they take it with them across our borders; that only it can ensure their return, and that, if it is lost, they will never come back to their home-land." Her blue eyes met his gaze. "They, sir, love their home-land."